Loc'd Up, Won't Let Me Out
Shout out to Akon for imprinting this song into my mind forever and ever.
Buckle up for this bonding experience. Black ladies, we’re talking about hair today. No, I’m not excluding other women from this to be spiteful. There is a visceral reaction, in my experience, that black woman have when we talk about our hair journey. If I was able to dig up the remnants of my MySpace just for you to peer into the psyche of a 14 year old and her hair choices, you’d probably give me a hug.
From the big chop to the big fro and back again, our hair has been through it all. The self conscious 15-year old who was asked, “Do you have pussy hair?” when referencing the texture of my fried and lopsided afro, somehow, feels healed now. Everyone laughed when I share that story, and in retrospect, it deserves a shocked chuckle. It’s a moment that, much like Akon’s music in the early 2000s, stays with me.
In 1994, my mom gave birth to a light skinned baby with little swoops of hair throughout her scalp. At the time, my mom had a Halle Berry cut. There’s only a few pictures of her like that. It wasn’t long after that she had a super short cut. Her bright smile against smooth brown skin were the highlights to those pictures. There’s one taken at the park with a now 2 year old toddler. Her hair stood out to me. She must have just finished running around with her father and sat down for fruit and pictures. Her tightly coiled fro was pulled back into two half hazard puffs. Now, 28 years later, I see the children’s books painted with black girl’s faces with the same hairstyle. I don’t remember those existing as much all those years ago.
It’s my first year of school. It’s kindergarden and I’m around more kids than I’ve ever seen all at once. One dark skinned girl catches my attention. She has full lips, browner skin than anyone in my family, and long braided hair with pink and white beads tied to the end. When she moved, you’d hear them. My first best friend in the whole world. Our moms became friends and her mom ended up doing my hair. I remember how long it took. I was 5, probably about to turn 6, and she would pull at my roots and curl her lip if I moved too much. I had anxiety so she didn’t complain too much because I didn’t move too much. I wanted to look just like her daughter.
I remember my friend and I shaking our heads in the bathroom mirror together. “We’re sisters now!.” And at 5 with a 3 year old sibling with a close cut hair, I really wanted a sister that I can share hair beads with. That was the only time she did my hair. I asked my mom to replicate the style.
My mom lived in Jamaica, Queens until she was 11 years old before moving to Danbury, Connecticut: Polar opposites of one another. Her parents worked full time jobs and they didn’t have an overwhelming amount of money. My nanny didn’t teach her how to do box braids or corn rows. She didn’t teach my mom the importance of moisturizer and oil. She taught herself. So the first time my mom put beads at the end of my braids, they looked a little off. She did straight back cornrows that puckered at the nape of my neck. I remember crying because I didn’t look like my newfound sister anymore.
I don’t remember getting my first perm, but I remember the picture my mom took of me afterwards. There were long, glistening coils falling on my shoulders. I was happy probably because it was the first time I was allowed to wet my hair in some time.
My transition from Hillside to Kenilworth mirrored my mom’s transition from Queens to Connecticut. I went from being surrounded by girls whose hair was braided with extensions and permed slick back ponytails to girls with bleach blonde pin straight hair and long loose curls that fell down their back. I had locs since the 4th grade to look like my mom. Between the ages of 9 and 13, many had a hand in thinning, combining, and over processing my hair. My first summer after my first year at a middle school in Kenilworth, I cut my locks off. I tried mimicking Halle Berry’s look from Bullworth. It looked much different from that because I was 12 and used a pair of left-handed scissors (I am not left handed). Somewhere in a photo album lies a photo of me leaning against our apartment doorway with my arms crossed sporting a freshly cute loc bob. I looked so satisfied with myself.
Midway through 8th grade, I combed my hair out and permed it straight. Not the neon green box with the shiny haired black girl on the front. The big white bucket that smelled of pneumonia and acid shellacked onto my scalp at the salon. Is this legal? I thought. Is it supposed to burn like this? The result, which to my recollection was less than favorable, was a thinning, shiny, short bowl cut. But my hair moved differently than with my 4c textured afro or my un-moisturized locs. I had straight hair like the people around me. They wouldn’t ask questions anymore. “Can I get dreadlocks too?” “Can I feel your hair?” “Can you never use a straightener?” “Have you ever combed your hair?”
Despite the popularity of the MTV reality series My Super Sweet 16, I’d never heard of a Sweet 16 until I started attending school in this very different neighborhood. I was asked to be part of Sweet 16 courts which involved buying dresses for parties that I couldn’t afford and going to rehearsals throughout the week in friend’s backyards to dance to "I Gotta Feeling” and “DJ Got Us Fallin’ In Love”. At the height of the tule skirts and blinged out corsets, Facebook holds a shrine of regrettable hairstyles and fashion faux pas. One in particular plagues my memories and Facebook albums. The first (and last) glue in weave. Everyone’s hair for this particular sweet 16, needed long curls with a short bang. My permed hair didn’t pass my neck. Without going into detail of the time I hopped into a strangers car to go to the beauty supply to buy 2 packs of curls, I was the only one of 8 girls who paid $100+ for her hair to look like everyone else’s for a day. Not a lot for hair, but I remember thanking my dad over and over again for giving me extra money - just in case.
And I kept those glued on tracks for a month. And it pulled at my hair and frizzed up because it was synthetic. And the day I decided to pull it off my head, half of my hair came with it.
After high school and throughout my 20s, I went through more phases than I care to remember. I remember while sporting the natural picked out afro at my first job after graduation, A woman came up to me and asked, “How long since you went natural?” I’d probably started in high school to be honest. My last perm was before my senior year of high school. “Umm, about two and a half years now.” She seemed impressed. I was just at the beginning of deprograming the ideal beauty standard engrained in my brain for the past 6 years. My afro being out was simply a matter of convenience. I didn’t want to sit and have my mom do cornrows for a braid-out. I was still scarred from the loss of hair years earlier to even think about braid in extensions for the long vacation braids. So, I’d settled for the old wash and go, but not really. My hair always looked the best immediately after the shower and pick. My shrinkage was intense 2 hours later.
Hair care was still rather foreign. I wanted something low matainence but luxurious. A style I didn’t need to be attentive to but also held out throughout my day. Hell, my week. I tried the texturizer (or rather the glorified perm). I dyed my high top blonde, then red, let it fade to pink, then box dye it red again. I got long, caramel colored box braids and jet black ones. I let the fro rock for years with the occasional twist out/braid out.
In 2020, I put two strand twists in my hair and never took them out. I was allowed to pass right through the “ugly loc phase” quarantined. At the time, I was working in a high school and we presented a slideshow to the students over a virtual assembly. Each new picture was a teacher or assistant or aide smiling in pajamas and unkept hair on their living room couch or in their bedrooms. My picture was taken on the bed from the neck up with a black beanie covering my entire head. My twists hadn’t locked yet. But no one would know aside from my boyfriend and roommate until the world opened back up. It’s 4 years later, and though my hair is the longest and healthiest it’s ever been, there is still a great deal of care and love needed to allow for my locs to thrive.
Each experience led me to an eventual new appreciation of my hair.
To the girl who called me a nappy headed bitch: I hope you understand how damaging that is to a fellow black woman who has been scrutinized their entire life for the state of their hair.
To the boy who pulled my hair at the bar to see how long it would stretch: I hope you do better in your future interactions with women.
To the woman who taught me how to utilize jojoba and black castor oil to promote hair growth and strength: I hope both sides of your pillow are cool at night.
To the man who’s eyes sparkled at my afro and helped deep condition my hair with aloe vera: I’m happy there are people like you in this world that make black women feel safe and comfortable and I can’t wait to marry you.
I share my hair journey because even with all the resources and all of the access to information, there are still those out there that struggle with hair care, that battle with their identity, and continue to try to come to terms with their self worth simply because of their hair.
So, from this light skinned loc’d up lady still finding ways to love her hair and in turn love herself, I pray this finds the right community and uplifts them. Our hair grows upwards to better fit our crowns.
